


dyin’ ain’t so bad, not if you both go together

by dreamonhunters



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Drug Dealing, Fake Newsies AU, GTA AU, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, Immortals AU, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamonhunters/pseuds/dreamonhunters
Summary: He’s alive, and real, and in a strange way it feels like he’s never been alive at all.Jack has died twenty-eight times. Davey’s on fourteen.One more strike over his heart.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly
Comments: 11
Kudos: 54





	dyin’ ain’t so bad, not if you both go together

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday rizz ♡

Jack Kelly died when he was twelve years old.

And again, when he was thirteen.

There’s a tombstone that says he died when he was fourteen, again at sixteen, eighteen, nineteen, and the one on his twenty-first birthday that he doesn’t talk about because alcohol poisoning isn’t a very cool way to go. 

Different names, of course. He’s many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. 

There’s more. Jack remembers each and every last one of them, vivid technicolour in his mind. Some of them are lost to time now, forgotten and unrecorded. Never been one to keep his legal documents in order. 

He’s twenty-two now, and the tally on his chest — emblazoned on the soft flesh over his heart, dark against tan skin — says he’s died twenty-seven times. 

He’s lived more lives than years.

Fingertips graze over those dark lines. A blessing and a curse. Jack Kelly is unbreakable, because his life isn’t so fragile. You fear nothing and nobody when you can’t be destroyed, when the light behind your eyes can never be extinguished. 

He hears shifting beside him, and his eyes flicker over to the bed. Expensive sheets cover a man’s sleeping form, curled on his side, one arm resting beneath his head. Softly illuminated by the rising sun, filtering through the cracks in the blinds.

David is beautiful when he sleeps. 

Jack lets out a soft sigh, allowing the fabric of his shirt to drop back down. Turns to watch his lover sleep, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth upwards. He’s a lucky, lucky man, truly. People like David Jacobs don’t fall for Jack Kelly. But neither of them should exist, because they both died a long time ago, and so Jack doesn’t look at the improbability of it anymore. 

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he murmurs. Davey mumbles something unintelligible, rolling over onto his back. “C’mon, we got work to do.”

“What time is it?” Davey asks, voice still thick with sleep. Blinks blearily up at the ceiling, letting his eyes adjust to the change in light. 

“Half seven,” Jack answers, without glancing at the clock on the wall. Doesn’t need to, because he wouldn’t get up any earlier than that without six alarms and a strong cup of coffee. “Think Finch an’ Albert are up. Heard ‘em bickering.”

“Unsurprising.”

He laughs, turning to lean against the wall. Davey rolls back onto his side, and that little smile lights up Jack’s world. Reminds him why he fell in love with this man all over again. 

“You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous,” Jack murmurs.

He laughs, shaking his head. “No need to flatter me, Jackie. I’m getting up.” 

“Not flatterin’. Admiring.” 

Davey pushes himself upright, stretching his arms. Arches his back until Jack hears that satisfying crack, the type you get from a good stretch. “You’re sweet.” 

“Don’t you know it, sugar,” he murmurs, moving across the room to press a soft kiss to Davey’s lips. “C’mon. Up an’ at ‘em. We got a deal to close.”

Davey’s laughter fills Jack’s ears as he waltzes out of the room, rolling his shoulders back. Shoots a tired-looking Racetrack his trademark grin as he passes. Albert and Finch are still bickering in the kitchen, although they both look a little more animated now. Romeo’s head rests on the table, a glass of orange juice long forgotten beside him. 

“Mornin’, lads,” Jack greets. Uncharacteristically cheerful for this time of morning, but he chooses to ignore that minor detail. 

“Mornin’, boss,” Albert drawls, mimicking Jack’s tone in the most obnoxious manner possible. “Didn’t think you were gonna make it.” 

“I ain’t that lazy, Al,” Jack deflects. “Gimme a break.” 

“You want coffee?” Finch offers, placing his own mug back on the counter. 

“You already know I do.”

“I don’t think Jack can function without his coffee,” Davey’s voice chimes in, and Jack turns to see his lover standing in the doorway. Leaning against the frame, small smirk tugging at his lips. Cocky. A quiet challenge, just between the two of them. The top of his shirt hangs open, unbuttoned. Unusual for Davey, but  _ more  _ than appreciated. 

“Good mornin’ to you too, David,” he drawls playfully, turning back to smile at his boys. “What’s got you lot up so early?”

Finch groans, sliding a cup of coffee across to Jack. “Ask me after.” 

“Someone’s cheerful,” Albert comments, earning himself a sharp jab to the ribs. 

“Racer had another stupid idea,” Louis mumbles, somehow managing to avoid eye contact with anyone as he enters the room. As he always does. “And you know he isn’t gonna just give up on it.” 

Jack simply laughs, sits himself down beside Romeo. “Rise an’ shine, Juliet,” he teases, nudging the boy’s shoulder. He stirs, grumbling something under his breath. Still doesn’t lift his head. 

“We’ll be out most of the day,” Davey adds coolly, retrieving the milk. “Got a deal to close.” 

“Anything important?” Finch asks, head inclined slightly towards Davey as he rejoins Albert at the table. 

Jack shakes his head, jaw cracking as he yawns. “Nah. These guys ain’t regulars. That’s why I want more money off ‘em.” 

“And you think tha’s gonna work?” Albert questions. 

“You know me,” Jack smirks. “I don’t take no for an answer.” 

“And we don’t have long,” Davey reminds.

“That we don’t,” he agrees, draining his cup. “Laters, boys. Don’t burn the house down.” 

“So keep Race away from the toaster? Got it,” Albert teases, earning himself a dark glare from the blond.

He follows Davey out of the kitchen, and maybe he’s lagging behind just a little to admire his lover. Not that he’d admit to that. 

Davey and Jack have always made a good pair. Maybe has a little something to do with the fact they slept together on their second meeting, but Jack likes to gloss over that fact. It’s not the most romantic story, but it suits them, he thinks. Jack was never one to beat around the bush. 

“You sure we shouldn’t bring Racer along?” Davey asks, voice betraying just the slightest hint of anxiety. They’re in the garage now, with Jack making a beeline towards his preferred vehicle. “He’s the talker.” 

“Nah. I got this, Dave, don’t worry ‘bout it. You know I got a way with words, an’ you’re not exactly  _ quiet.” _

He doesn’t have an answer for that. Doesn’t really require an answer, really, because Jack’s right, and they both know it. They’re equally as competent, and sometimes it’s nice to have something for just the two of them. 

They don’t talk while they drive. Jack doesn’t have anything to say, and Davey doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s at the wheel. A quiet hour to prepare themselves, mentally and physically. 

Jack fiddles with his glock. Flicks the safety on and off, that soft clicking a small distraction for his mind. Davey would complain if he weren’t so focused. Occasionally, he’ll hum quietly to himself, break the silence for a few fleeting moments, and it’s nice. Pleasant. Comfortable.

Davey pulls up a few blocks away, rests his arms on the steering wheel. Jack knows that expression. Steeling himself. 

“You ready?” Jack asks softly, leaning over to press a light kiss to Davey’s cheekbone. 

“Mm,” he answers, not meeting Jack’s eyes. He needs these moments. It’s a little harder for Davey to create that mental separation. 

They stay there for a short while longer, listening to the other’s breathing. Jack waits for Davey to unbuckle his seatbelt and pop his door open, taking another deep breath as he steps out. And he follows his lover’s lead, tucking the glock into his waistband. Insurance, more than anything. 

Davey’s by his side in an instant, the back of his hand brushing against Jack’s. He resists the urge to intertwine their fingers, just for those few fleeting moments, because he doesn’t quite need that physical reassurance anymore. 

You can’t hurt Jack Kelly, and you can’t hurt David Jacobs, because every time they come right back. Death has no permanence. Blink, and they’re awake, side by side, gasping for that first breath all over again. A blessing and a curse.

Jack’s fingertips trace the tally on the inside of his lover’s wrist, a feather light touch. Davey isn’t so laidback, however. He explains his fears quietly, when it's just the two of them in a darkened room, bodies pressed against each other. Every death marks one closer to the end for him. A fear that one day this little performance will come to a horrifying close, and suddenly the fragility of life will become all too real. There has to be a limit to their immortality, he insists, even if Jack disagrees. Just how far can they push it?

His head turns, steely blue eyes meeting deep brown. “Be safe, Jackie,” Davey murmurs, eyes filled with a concern most people wouldn’t quite understand. When you don’t quite fear death, your biggest fear is loneliness, Jack realises. 

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.” 

A modern office building towers above them, morning sunlight reflecting off the large glass front. 

“Little bit more than I expected,” Davey murmurs, and Jack shrugs. Punches a code into a small keypad, buttons glowing blue beneath his fingertips. Not a single smudge on those glass double doors. 

“Hey, they’re payin’ us good money. I just want a little more, y’know?” 

“As always,” Davey sighs, with that faux irritance that Jack knows and loves. 

A voice crackles over the little intercom, a female voice. “Who’s here?” 

“Jack Kelly and David Jacobs, here to see Mr. Pulitzer?” Jack asks, that usual drawl disappearing from his voice. He means business. 

There’s a soft click. The doors slide open, and the pair step into a modern lounge area. “Floor twenty-seven,” Jack murmurs, shoes clicking against the polished marble floor. Nobody else around, no other sounds. 

Davey doesn’t speak, follows Jack into the elevator silently, leans against the cool metal railing as they ascend. His brow pinches together with a silent anxiety. Gets like this every time. The doors slide open.

“Kelly. Jacobs. Good to see you again,” a smooth voice greets. Pulitzer is a tall man, greasy hair that’s greying at the roots and bright blue eyes that crease up a little when he smiles.

“You too,” Jack smiles, lips pulled into a tight grin. False, a little too strained around the edges, but only Davey would pick up on that. “This ain’t gonna take long.” 

“I’m sure it won’t,” Pulitzer mutters, turning on his heel. Leads them towards a door, right down the far end of the hallway. Too polished and perfect. Their footsteps echo as they walk. Holds it open for them. Davey shoots him a small smile as Jack sits down. 

“So,” Jack drawls, leaning forward. Long arms cross on the edge of Pulitzer’s desk, one hand coming to rest under his chin. “I got bad news. We’re gonna have to up rates, ‘cause suppliers are screwin’ me over.” 

“Is that so?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. Davey’s fingers hover over his own gun, just a little anxiety settling in his gut. “Who supplies you, may I ask?”

“Smaller cartel across town. The Delanceys.”

“Interesting.”

Pulitzer drums his fingertips on the desk rhythmically. A dim sound, and somehow it echoes in Jack’s brain. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, hyperaware of the way his clothes feel against his skin, the weight of the gun on his hip, the gentle sound of Davey’s breathing somewhere close behind.

“How so?”

There’s tension in Jack’s shoulders. Something in Pulitzer’s expression just doesn’t sit quite right with him. 

“I just so happen to know a certain Morris Delancey. And I just so happen to know he hasn’t changed his prices in four years.”

_ Shit. _

There’s a predatory grin on Pulitzer’s face, toothy and shark-like. Jack doesn’t like it one bit. Can’t think of a way to talk himself out of this one, and Davey isn’t forthcoming. He’s a deer trapped in the headlights, waiting for Pulitzer to finish him off. 

His brain doesn’t quite register the gun, or the shot that fires off, or the smell of smoke that fills the room. Dimly, he registers the sound of a body hitting the ground, and he already knows it’s Davey. Doesn’t have time to react, because his vision is hazy as a second bullet pierces his own skull.

There’s a sudden moment of peace. The darkness envelopes him, like an old friend, a comforting embrace. Fleeting.

And then there’s agonising pain, splitting his skull straight down the middle. Because recovering from death isn’t a painless process, of course not. There has to be some kind of drawback to immortality. Every single time, your body has to rebuild what is broken from the inside out, bring itself back from the end, and that’s no easy feat. 

Maybe that’s why Davey’s so afraid it’ll all be over one day. That there’s a limit, and one day his body will give out, unable to muster the strength to rebuild itself once again. 

Jack isn’t so sure.

When his eyes reopen, he feels concrete beneath his fingertips. Gunpowder on his tongue, blood stuck between his teeth. Coppery. Licks his lips, sore and cracked. Darkened sky, the few stars you can see despite the city lights glinting overhead. Distantly, he can hear cars, somewhere far below. A rooftop.

How fitting.

He’s alive, all over again, and he lays there for a few quiet moments. Feels the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, how he can move each finger independently. The ground is scratchy against his skin. 

Davey’s there, and he sits up a little too fast. Chest heaving, eyes wild. Some things never change. 

“Hey, calm down,” Jack murmurs, slowly easing himself up. “You’re fine.  _ We’re  _ fine. It’s good.”

“This time,” Davey whispers, voice cracking just a little on the second syllable. “This time, Jackie.”

“An’ that’s what matters, ain’t it? This time? I don’t give a damn about next time, ‘cause it ain’t happened yet.” 

Davey shakes his head, still trembling. “I don’t know how we live like this.”

“‘Cause if there is a limit, we ain’t gonna find it by standin’ still,” he answers. “C’mon. You’re gettin’ yourself all worked up over nothin’. We’re  _ alive, _ Dave. Who gives a shit about this ‘limit’?”

“I do.”

Jack sighs, moves his hand to rest on top of Davey’s. Familiar touch. Smooth skin beneath calloused palms, worn rough from years of firefights and underhanded tactics. 

“Let it go, Davey. We’re okay.” 

“This time.” 

“Sure, this time. An’ all the times before.” 

Davey’s still shaking. Slowly, carefully, Jack pulls him a little closer. Intertwines their fingers. Matching gold bands gleam in the streetlights. 

“You still got me, ain’t ya? And I ain’t goin’ nowhere without you,” Jack reassures. There’s a smile on his face. A different look, softer behind the eyes. Silent promise, just between the two of them. “I love you, David.” 

“I love you too,” he replies. Breathy. Eyes still wide with shock, heart still racing. It’ll take a while for him to calm down, back to that trademark neutrality Davey’s better known for. 

Jack lays back down. The concrete isn’t comfortable, but he doesn’t really feel like walking back. They could be miles away, for all he knows. Dark eyes fix on the stars, lips twisting upwards. Innate comfort. A ghost of a smile. 

“Sleep here tonight, Dave. They ain’t gonna miss us.”

He silently shifts closer, rests his head on Jack’s chest, lets his lover hold him close. There’s no words. Doesn’t need to be, because they understand each other perfectly without the need for words. Davey drifts off first, exhausted from the whole ordeal. And Jack feels him breathe, feels his heartbeat, feels the warmth of his skin. Calm.

He’s alive, and real, and in a strange way it feels like he’s never been alive at all.

Jack has died twenty-eight times. Davey’s on fourteen. 

One more strike over his heart. 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr @narvaeztrash for more writing _!_


End file.
